


You strut your suicide poem

by lyryk (s_k)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, Drug Use, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-31
Updated: 2011-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-25 03:10:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_k/pseuds/lyryk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://kinkme-merlin.livejournal.com/23407.html?thread=23437167#t23437167">this prompt</a>, which asked for a dark fic based on Sarah Mclachlan's 'Building a Mystery'. Title from the song.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You strut your suicide poem

**Author's Note:**

> The bloodplay is very slight. It's not one of my kinks (although it isn't a squick), but I put it in because the OP is fond of it. :-D

Merlin doesn't know why he bothers with the dark, dingy tavern anymore.

Maybe it's because the people in it are so bright, despite the air of long-forgotten prosperous times that swirls around the club. And by 'people' he really means Arthur Pendragon’s group, the one that dominates the scrubbed wooden table at the left end of the long rectangle that is the room.

(The knights shut down the place when they use it, throwing all the other patrons out. At first it was just curiosity that had led Merlin to try to discover what they did there. Now, it’s an impossible-to-resist craving to go there, to _look_.)

Maybe it’s because he knows he can slip in at the back, open the kitchen door just a crack and see the Prince there with his minions, the fucking knights of bloody Camelot.

(Merlin doesn’t know why he’s sticking around in this place that is stifling him so much, so much, forcing him to hide his magic like it’s some unspeakable, _filthy_ thing. But he stays, he _will_ stay; that much is never under doubt.)

Maybe it’s because in there, amidst that gloom and darkness that is haunted by the stench of blood and the vile smoke that rises from most of the tables, that he can see Arthur Pendragon the way he can never see him elsewhere. Drugged up to his eyeballs, his body relaxed, his legs draped atrociously over another knight’s lap, or his arms slung over someone’s shoulder, much, much too intimately.

(Merlin will never, ever confess to it, not even under pain of death. To how much he wants to not be excluded; to be seen, for once, just once, as what he is. To be touched like that, like his skin is skin just as much as anyone else’s, like his heart is a heart too, like his cock can give and take just as much pleasure as anyone else’s can.)

He looks like an angel, his hair like spun gold in the light of the few candles in the room, his laughter unguarded and liberated in a way that stabs Merlin’s gut like a knife, that makes him heat up from within, makes him want to burn and burn and _burn_ , and make Pendragon burn with him, take him down, silence that laughter forever. The young prince reaches lazily to cup the nape of the nearest knight’s neck—Leon—and kisses him open-mouthed, languidly, like he’s moving through water.

(Merlin wants to kill him. He wants to kill them both, kill them all, raze their fucking den to the ground until not even ashes survive.)

 

\--

 

And then Arthur Pendragon opens his eyes in mid-kiss and looks straight at Merlin.

He should back away— _hurry, hurry, NOW_ —run away while he still can, but the prince’s gaze is inescapable. Heat burns through Merlin’s body, down his throat and through his chest all the way to the tips of his fingers that are pressed against the door, and he’s afraid the wood will catch fire.

Arthur lets go of his knight, his body swaying a little as he stands, his hands slapping against the table before he moves away. Away from the table, toward Merlin. He takes a step back from the door, not to back off but to await confrontation.

Arthur enters, draws his sword and kicks the door shut behind him in one impossibly graceful, fluid movement. ‘See something you like?’ he says, still with the same languid grace with which he’d kissed Leon, with which he’d kissed another _man_ , oh _gods_.

He wants to say things he didn’t know were in his thoughts, use words he hadn’t known were in his vocabulary. But the sword is there between them, naked and drawn, and fuck, this hadn’t been the way he’d wanted to become visible.

‘Your fingers,’ Arthur observes with mild curiosity, ‘are _red_.’

‘I could tell the king,’ Merlin says, gesturing with his head toward the other room.

Arthur frowns, as if the import of those words is lost on him. ‘Father doesn’t care for places like this.’

‘I didn’t mean I’d _invite_ him here, you stupid fucking royal prat,’ Merlin hisses.

Arthur’s eyes are glazed with exhaustion, with declining euphoria, with desolation. ‘He has... _things_ , Mer... Merlin.’ _You stupid fucking royal cunt,_ Merlin’s brain supplies. _You can’t even recall my fucking name._

‘Things,’ Arthur goes on, oblivious. ‘Goblets. Silver. Goblets made of silver, even. A throne. Many thrones. Did you know my father had extra thrones hidden away, Merlin? And windows. He has windows that aren’t grimy at all. He has a castle that’s like a fucking holy place. He has _faith_.’

He takes a step toward Merlin, the sword clattering to the floor. Merlin tries to back away but he is forced against the wall, Arthur’s hands on either side of his head.

‘I have this,’ Arthur whispers into Merlin’s hair. ‘I killed eleven men in battle today. I have _this_ , Merlin.’ He draws Merlin’s name out like a sigh, his breath sweet with whatever the knights have been burning up. It smells like lilies. Beneath the scent is the faint tang of blood, and the fainter fragrance of Arthur, the musk of his sweat, the scent of his skin.

 

\--

 

Arthur’s body slumps against Merlin’s. Merlin pushes him away, letting him collapse to the floor, his face inches from the blade of his discarded sword.

And then he flees, running all the way home. Fortunately for him, Gaius isn’t back yet, and cannot see the state he’s in. The heat is almost unbearable now, the flames inside him fanned maddeningly by the memory of Arthur’s closeness, the terrible, beautiful smell of him, that combination of sweetness and death. He remembers Arthur’s words, spoken so softly, disappearing so quickly that he will never be sure if he’d actually heard them.

He collapses on his knees against the door, his back arching against the wall as he frees his cock and begins to stroke himself with rough, erratic movements. He imagines Arthur with the knights, kneeling on the floor as they form a circle around him, using his mouth two at a time, holding his head back by his hair, stroking his face, pinching his nipples, running exploratory hands over the insides of his thighs and the crack of his arse, ignoring his cock so he can plead for mercy, beg to be touched, to be used like a filthy, _filthy_...

Merlin bites into his arm to muffle his shout as he spills over his fist before slumping against the floor, utterly spent. He tastes blood from where his teeth have broken the skin of his arm, and rubs despondently against his nose in a futile attempt to get rid of the smell of lilies.

 

\--

 

He awakens in the morning, face pressed to the cold stone floor, and groans. There’s a crick in his neck and his back feels like it’s been bent the wrong way, but it’s too late to try to get any decent sort of sleep now. He splashes water on his face and runs out the door, shouting a hurried goodbye to Gaius, combing his hands through his hair in a futile attempt to get it to lie neatly.

In the light of day, it’s almost impossible to imagine that Camelot has a dark underbelly. The visions of Arthur and his men from the night before seem like phantasmagoria, the products of his dark and deranged imagination.

Entering Arthur’s chamber, he hears the sound of muffled curses and spots the prince, bare to his waist, with his head buried inside his wardrobe as he looks for a shirt to wear.

‘I’ll get it, Sire,’ he says quickly. Arthur straightens too quickly and bumps his head against the door. He looks freshly-scrubbed and very very clean, and even from a distance Merlin can smell his lavender-scented soap. There is no hint of blood or lilies now.

Arthur has no retort in response, and Merlin raises an eyebrow as he moves to the cupboard and pulls out a red shirt. Arthur stands silently as Merlin helps him into it, pulling it over his head and smoothing it across his broad shoulders. He leaves Arthur to do up the laces himself, wondering how much the prince remembers of the previous night.

He’s halfway out the door, intending to fetch Arthur’s breakfast, when Arthur finally speaks. ‘How long have you known?’

Merlin turns around, lifts a careless shoulder. ‘A while.’

‘And you’ve said nothing? To anyone else?’ Arthur’s eyes are far too calculating, and Merlin finds himself looking around to see where the sword is, whether he’ll have time to escape it if Arthur attacks. If he gives even the smallest hint that he may betray the secret, he knows Arthur won’t hesitate to kill him.

‘No, Sire.’ He keeps his voice as meek as possible, and doesn’t meet Arthur’s eyes.

‘You won’t say a word?’ Arthur persists.

Merlin shakes his head. ‘Not a word, Sire.’

‘I will see to it that you are rewarded for your discretion,’ Arthur says stiffly, and turns away.

 

\--

 

Merlin freezes in the doorway, looking at the lean, hard lines of Arthur’s back beneath his thin shirt, the way the muscles of his shoulders are bunched with strain.

‘Rewarded for my discretion?’ he repeats.

Arthur turns back around, lifting his eyebrows. ‘Is there a problem, Merlin?’ His tone is far too light, as though they’re discussing something trivial, but he can’t hide the way his hands are fisted with tension.

‘I don’t,’ Merlin begins, and pauses, searching for words. ‘I don’t _know_ you anymore,’ he says.

Ignoring the words completely, Arthur picks up his money bag from the table and tosses it at Merlin, who catches it one-handed against his body. ‘That’s yours,’ Arthur says carelessly. ‘Now go away and don’t speak of this again.’

The bag is warm and heavy in Merlin’s hand, and he knows without having to open it that it contains more money than he could earn in a year. He flings the thing at Arthur’s feet. ‘I don’t want your fucking money.’

Arthur’s eyes turn bright with annoyance. ‘You will address me appropriately, Merlin.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t want your fucking money, your royal fucking highness.’ He’s unable to stop the anger from spilling over into his words, into every cell of his being. There’s a tingling at the base of his spine, a sure sign that he’s on the verge of losing control, but he can’t bring himself to care.

Arthur’s face is like stone for a moment. ‘What on earth’s gotten into you?’ he says finally. He definitely sounds more curious than angry now.

‘Into _me_?’ Merlin yells. ‘What’s wrong with _you_? How can you do this to yourself?’

Arthur says nothing for several moments, turning his gaze to the open window and staring outside, his eyes empty. Finally he sighs, rubs the bridge of his nose with the tips of his fingers. ‘I thought. Last night, I thought you... you understood.’

‘Understood what?’ Merlin is quieter now, if only because Arthur seems far too defenceless like that, slumped into a chair, hands open and limp in his lap. ‘That you’re in pain? That you have the right to hurt yourself?’

‘I do, you know.’ Arthur’s almost smiling now, as if at some private joke.

Later, Merlin will think of that almost-smile as his breaking point, as the moment when the fight went out of him, to be replaced by something else, something indefinable, something simultaneously warm and tight inside his chest.

He goes to kneel before Arthur, his fingers gently smoothing the fine golden hair from his forehead. ‘No,’ he says. ‘No, you really don’t.’ He cups the nape of Arthur’s neck and pulls his head forward so their mouths can meet.

The kiss is far too gentle, much more soft than any gesture between them has the right to be. After an initial surprised sound, Arthur allows himself to be led. Merlin parts Arthur’s pliant lips gently with the tip of his tongue, and then, meeting no resistance, explores further. It’s just beginning to get wonderfully wet and hot and absolutely perfect when Arthur abruptly pushes him away.

‘No,’ he says, getting to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as though he’s trying to erase the taste of Merlin. ‘Not with you.’

‘Arthur—’

‘We will not speak of this again,’ Arthur says, and flees.

 

\--

 

They manage to avoid each other almost the entire day. Merlin watches from the sidelines as Arthur trains with the knights, looking completely in form and as confident as always with his sword. If he’s a little paler than usual, if there are shadows under his eyes, no one else seems to notice.

Arthur isn’t in his bedchamber when Merlin takes up his dinner that night, and the realisation of where he must be hits Merlin with a hot swoop of disgust in his stomach. So the kiss between them had meant nothing at all. He’d been a fool to imagine that that softness had been real.

He sets the food on the table and sits in the darkness, not bothering to light the candles. The windows are still open and the room is much too cold, but Merlin takes a vengeful delight in knowing that Arthur won’t be as warm tonight as he usually is. Tonight he isn’t going to cast any spells to ensure that the room is warm and welcoming when Arthur returns.

He’s almost dozing off in his chair when he hears Arthur’s boots in the corridor outside, and the door creaks open. Arthur steps forward into the pool of moonlight, blinking, trying to adjust his eyes to the semi-darkness. ‘Merlin?’ he says, hesitant, his voice hoarse.

He reeks of sex.

‘I should go to the king right now.’ Merlin’s voice is too shaky for his liking, but he can’t help the response that’s torn out of him by the sight of Arthur debauched and bedraggled.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. Don’t start, Merlin. Bloody fuck, you’re worse than a nagging wife.’ Arthur throws himself onto the bed, boots and all, his arm over his face.

Merlin takes several deep breaths, but it doesn’t help. He yanks Arthur’s arm away, pins his wrist above his head. ‘What the—’ Arthur begins in annoyance, but Merlin slaps him across the face, stunning him into silence.

‘What was it tonight?’ Merlin hisses as he straddles Arthur, holding him captive by both his wrists now. ‘The same vile drug? Did you let them all fuck you?’

Arthur says nothing at all. He’s breathing harshly, hands slack beneath Merlin’s crushing grip. He’s stronger than this, too strong to allow himself to be manhandled like this. His eyes are just as frighteningly blank as they’d been that morning, but Merlin thinks he sees a spark of surrender in them. Just for an instant, long enough for him to know what he wants, what they both want.

‘Keep them there,’ he warns as he releases Arthur’s hands. Arthur’s fingers clutch the pillow on either side of his head as he lifts his hips obligingly for Merlin to tear his breeches down. He wastes no time in thrusting a hand between Arthur’s thighs, discovering that his hole is slick and wet with use.

‘Please,’ Arthur whispers.

Merlin slams inside him with all the force he can muster without using his powers, setting a hard and relentless pace. Arthur’s head is thrown back, and Merlin can’t resist bending down and biting the long, pale stretch of his throat.

Arthur is whimpering softly, and Merlin doesn’t care if it’s with pleasure or pain. He straightens and grasps Arthur’s thighs, holding them apart as he fucks Arthur with all his strength. It’s hard and fast and impersonal and exhilarating. He doesn’t touch Arthur any more than he needs to, digging his fingernails into his long, lean thighs, not to caress but to control. Arthur’s cock is impossibly hard and completely neglected. When he reaches to take himself in hand, Merlin growls in warning and pins his wrists again, letting his cock sink again and again into the tight, clutching heat of Arthur’s body, thrilling with disgust and excitement at the warm, wet sensation of fucking a hole that’s already drenched with other men’s come.

Arthur fights against Merlin’s hold, lifting his head off the pillow, desperate for a kiss. Merlin remembers the way he is with the knights during their private time in the tavern, so tactile, always touching, kissing, stroking. He keeps Arthur cruelly deprived, and his head falls back onto the pillow in defeat as he moans and arches his back, biting his lip savagely as Merlin’s thrusts become shallower and more frantic.

He pulls out of Arthur just before he comes, moving up to straddle his chest and stroking himself savagely, painting the prince’s face with his come. Arthur laps greedily at his cock, his warm, wet tongue swiping at the underside of Merlin’s cock, sending _brilliant_ aftershocks coursing through his body.

Merlin rolls off him and lies on his back beside him, struggling to catch his breath. ‘Merlin,’ Arthur says very very softly, as if he’s in pain, as if it takes all his strength just to whisper Merlin’s name.

Merlin turns on his side to face Arthur, gliding his thumb along the cut on his lip from where he’s bitten himself. ‘I’ve got you,’ he promises, reaching between them to take Arthur in hand. He noses gently along Arthur’s cheek, flicks at the blood on his lip with his tongue. It tastes warm and sweet, so much like lilies and death, so not like them at all. He laps at his own come that's smeared over Arthur's face, dips his tongue into Arthur’s mouth, letting him taste the sharp, sweet tang of his own blood mingled with the bitter, lemony taste of Merlin's come, the kiss slow and warm and filthy and glorious, and keeps kissing him until he spills his release over Merlin’s fist.

Arthur’s body is heavy with sleep and exhaustion when Merlin moves away, his still-open eyes seeming to gather the darkness into them until there is nothing Merlin can do but watch him slip away into merciful oblivion.

 

\--

 

Merlin scrubs angrily at a patch of encrusted blood on Arthur’s armour, his fingernails hurting as he tries to scrape it away.

He hears Arthur’s boots in the corridor long before he enters the room, and doesn’t look up as he storms in.

‘Must you do that in here?’ Arthur says irritably as he throws himself into a chair, screwing up his face in disgust as he sees what Merlin’s doing. Merlin looks up in disbelief. So the royal prat’s just going to ignore the previous night. Well. Two can play at that game.

‘As you wish, Sire,’ he says, gathering up the armour and heading for the door, knowing there’s no way Arthur will let him leave.

‘Oh, and you needn’t bring up my dinner tonight. I’ll be out,’ Arthur says, his tone heavy with bitter exhaustion.

‘No, you won’t,’ Merlin says, turning around.

‘Excuse me?’ Arthur says, incredulous.

Merlin considers him for a moment, gazing at the magnificent figure sprawled carelessly, one leg dangling over an arm of his chair. ‘You’ll go when I say you can.’

Arthur begins to laugh. ‘You’re such a fucking idiot, Merlin.’

‘And you,’ Merlin says, depositing his armful of armour on the table, ‘are an insufferable prat.’

‘Why do you suffer me, then?’ Arthur’s voice is much too soft. Merlin wants to drown in the tempestuous blue of his eyes.

‘Because I...’ Merlin can’t speak any more. And just like that, the balance of power between them seesaws until it’s all in Arthur’s hands.

They can’t have that.

Merlin closes his eyes and _unleashes_. Arthur’s sword is wrenched from its scabbard by an invisible hand. It suspends itself in midair, pointing at his chest.

He opens his eyes to see Arthur on his feet. Merlin blinks lazily, knowing that Arthur can see the gold swirling in his eyes.

'You could end it now,' Merlin says. 'All the responsibility. All the pain.'

Arthur takes a step forward, the weapon against his heart. He sways a little, his eyes on Merlin's face.

'No,' Merlin says gently. 'No.' _Not like that._

Arthur grasps the sword, and Merlin relinquishes it.

‘On your knees,’ Arthur grits out. Merlin obeys instantly, falling to his knees and linking his fingers behind his head. The sharp swordpoint caresses his throat.

His life in Arthur’s hands. It’s the most liberating feeling he’s ever known.

 

~fin~


End file.
